In My Skin
by girlfromagloe
Summary: "People stay away from me. They just do. But it seemed like this girl Brittany hadn't gotten the memo." Semi-AU Brittana, in that Santana is a diagnosed depressive and Brittany is new to McKinley.
1. Welcome

CHAPTER ONE

Today, I think, I will find a gun and either I am going to die or everyone around me is.

I haven't decided yet. Maybe I'll flip a coin.

On the way out the door mom stops me the blunt end of a fish slice. She's flipping bacon for my kid brother Dean, who has not come down to the table yet.

'Have some breakfast first', she says, in Spanish, meaning it takes a second for me to process.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her. I have not had breakfast first since the day I figured out I could go to school without eating breakfast first.

'I'm fine', I say. English.

The whole ridiculousness of that comment lingers in the room like an awkward family friend. Mom is shaking her head at me.

'I'll eat on the way there', I say, because I want to leave before Dean comes in and will be forced to talk to me.

'Where are you going?'

School, mom. You should try it sometime.

'You really should brush your hair first'.

I shrug and open the back door. I can hear movement down the hall.

'Have you taken your pills this morning?'

I slam the door closed in her face.

/

Mackenzie isn't waiting for me before school, not exactly, but I know where she'll be, which is under the bleachers, and she knows that I'm probably going to turn up and, low and behold.

Mackenzie is like a friend you would begrudgingly make in order to break out of prison with, because they have the grappling hook. On the outside we would never even look at each other.

'Give me some coffee', I say.

'Get your own fucking coffee', she responds, and then passes her cardboard cup over anyway. What a friend. I take a gulp large enough to burn the roof of my own mouth. It certainly wakes me up.

Mackenzie 'The Mack', is the leader of the 'under-the-bleachers-in-crowd-that-won't-admit-it's-an in-crowd', called the 'skanks'. She sought me out at the beginning of the year, which I guess means I'm one of them. I think she thinks her 'don't give a fuck' attitude and my 'honestly no fucks to give' attitude make a good combination. Whatever. I get caffiene out of it.

'This blows', she says, and I wonder _what exactly_, as the day hasn't started yet and jesus christ I thought _I _was depressive.

I take another sip of coffee,' what?'

'Almost two hundred boys at this school and there isn't one I like'.

She looks at me from the corner of my eye as if she's expecting a specific response, and I know what it is. Since a party where I got extremely drunk affew months ago, and ended up making out with this senior cheerio (like, properly making out as well), Mack has been trying to get me to admit my sexuality to her. I have so far resisted. It's not worth it, not over some brunette cheerio who has subsequentally ignored me since the event. Plus, I don't want to come out, and least of all to the Mack. Don't get me wrong- I'm not ashamed or anything, I just don't think it is anyone's damn business. Least of all my prison friend.

I shrug.

Then the bell goes, a welcome relief except it means that I now have to confine myself to a room for six hours and learn mostly useless facts about mostly pointless people and events. That's the thing about my school day. I'm constantly relieved that at least one part of it is over. I take a last swig of coffee and hand back the cup, saying goodbye to Mack, who has made no movement towards class. I'd bunk with her, but to be honest I think I need better company to make it worthwhile. I cut across the fancy car park on my way to the school entrance.

/

I sit at the back out of direct eyelines. This is how the lessons roll- I mind my own business, the teacher's mind theres. Usually, this routine lasts me all the way home, all through dinner and homework and surfing the internet and taking my pills and brushing my teeth and bed. Usually. Then there are the days when it is a Tuesday and that means submitting to personal questions from the world's worst counseller. I'm talking about a woman called Emma Pillsbury. Oh- you're gonna love her.

Every Tuesday, as a desperate attempt for my mom to 'keep McKinley in the loop', I attend a counselling session with school counseller Miss Pillsbury. I don't mind it- I get out of late afternoon lessons and I'm generally adept at steering the conversation away from talking about my feelings. This Tuesday afternoon I sit down behind her desk and wait for her to arrange the pencil pot and the plastic trays full of flyers in perfect line. I tend not to mention how fucked up her mind must be, in the hope she won't mention how fucked up mine must. I tilt back the chair a little, attempting to look nonchalant, even though my pills haven't kicked in yet (couldn't find a quiet spot to take them at lunch) and because of this I really only want to curl up into a ball on the floor so tiny they would never be able to unwrap me.

'So Santana', she says, finally settling,' how are you?'

'Fine', I say.

'Okay, then. How's your mom?'

'She's good, thanks'.

'I wanted to talk to you- about joining some clubs'.

'Clubs?'

'I think it might help with some of your social issues'.

'My social issues are that I don't talk to people'.

'Yes well, I think, given the right… circumstances, you would be able to… come out of your shell a little, you know, really start developing friendships. I think it would be a big help'.

Here's what you need to know about Emma Pillsbury, and I know I've said this before: worst. Counseller. Ever. _But _having sessions from her means that I don't have to see someone else out of school. So I nod along as she explains the virtues of chess club and spanish language club, all the while throwing surrepticious glances out of the window, at the crowd, thinning now as people go off to their lessons. We talk. Miss Pillsbury tries to talk about the anti-depressants as if they are an everyday problem that we all go through; I tell her I've been eating fine, thanks very much; I assure her I am keeping up on my school work and she says she believes me, even though I know she will check later on.

'Now Santana', she says, a good twenty minutes later,' I think that's enough for the day. Do you have anything you want to talk about, anything at all?'

I look her in the eye for a moment, and I realise that she is expecting the answer no. I always answer no. But today, for some reason, I hesistate. I have a sudden desire to give her something back. I think it must be the pills finally kicking in but I suddenly feel gratitude, twinned with guilt. At the waste my own head is making of these sessions. But my mind is blank. I can't think of anything to say because it is all just too complicated. One loose fact, one idle strand of my problems will have to be followed through until eventually the whole thing is yanked apart. And I don't know where to start.

So I smile and I say,' no, thankyou'.

We swap byes and I trot off along the mostly empty hallways, into the sunset. It's an art mural from the seniors, a desert landscape with a low red sinking sun done in collage. I pause by it and wonder where to go now.

Math? Home? Math?

Home?

I decide on the road most travelled, the one I always take even after pretending to myself for these two stupid weekly minutes that this is a decision I can control. I skip math and I go home, to the empty house and the greeting mom as she comes in and then dinner and homework and surfing the internet and taking my pills and brushing my teeth and bed.

Relieved that at least one part of my day is over.


	2. Math

CHAPTER TWO

I wake up, dull and early, to the sound of my mom pulling out of the drive.

She's going to work, with Dean in the backseat all neat and ready for school.

Not too early, then. In fact when I finally manage to pull myself up and drag on some clothes, I realise I am actually too late to do anything but get ready and sprint to school. Even eat. I figure I can at least last 'til lunch on an energy drink out of the fridge. It's not healthy but hey- that's me all over.

And so I enter purgatory. And I know how _teenager _that sounds- the boredom! The pain! The hormone surges!- but that is how high school is for me. I can't remember actually enjoying a lesson since middle school. It seems to me that growing up just makes the world more and more hypocritical. Like you finally see it for real and don't like what you see.

God, I need caffiene.

At break I find myself mooching around on the concrete steps beyone the staff room, watching kids at picnic tables and filing my nails down to perfect crescents, just for something to do. I'm close to simply getting up and walking out of the gates when I suddenly hear voices. And not voices _talking_. I hear a male acapella 'bam bam baaaa', closely followed by female backing vocals. I recognise the chords- it's a chart hit I have heard over the kitchen radio a thousand times. The glee club must be trying to bolster their ranks again.

It's when the rapping starts that I immediately want to throw something. The kid in the wheelchair doing it must have balls, because everyone's looking at them like they want to tear them limb from limb. And this isn't because they're bad, (the shared opinion noone admits to is that the McKinley High glee club is sort of awesome), it's just because it is break. There are tests coming up in Spanish. And the glee kids should pick their moments more wisely. Did I mention that I fucking hate rap?

'Empire state of mind', I realise out loud, to no one. No one notices. But: that's what this damn song is. They've gotten onto the good part, the chorus and I'm actually starting to enjoy it. The girls are singing this bit, including affew who I'm fairly confident are cheerios. Two blondes. I wonder why they are in glee club at all. But hey- who am I to judge? I'm the one possibly joining the chess club in order improve my social skills.

I catch the eye of one of them as she gets up on one of the picnic tables, scattering lunches. For once no one seems to care because she is dancing like a _beast_, flicking her hair and generally being very very sexy. Her eyes are light blue which means they catch the sky as they flick my way. Just for a second. Then I look down and shove my hands deep into my pockets and cough nervously. Because her eyes are probably the best eyes I've seen, and that sounds weird, especially as I generally avoid eye contact, but it is true. They are so blue they almost look unreal, like she is too good to be true.

I cut break short and head off to class before the song finishes.

/

In third period math I find a shadow blocking the desk and a female voice asking whether she can sit there.

Let's get this straight now: people don't sit next to me, unless directly ordered to by a teacher (and Mrs Robinson's still outside chatting with some senior math homeboys, so that can't be what is happening).

I look up, hoping I can scare whoever the hell it is away. Just to clarify: I _like_ this system. I _like _not having to make idiotic small talk in a desperate attempt to make the school day gel. And it works. In this school, people, especially so called 'cool' people, leave me alone, as I am considered weird in the most extreme way, particulary after a letter written by my ex-friend Puck to the school newspaper (more on that later). But before I can channel my Lima Heights death glare to automatically clear the vicinity, I see who it is, and simply gape for a second at the blonde cheerleader with her hand on the chair. _Blue eyes_.

I can usually go for days without talking to anyone (apart from teachers. But hey, they don't count). It becomes sort of a game, staying silent, staying the same. It's convienient as you can play it literally everywhere. At school. In the shower. In the discomfort of your own room. My record is I think a month. Miss Pillsbury wasn't impressed with me, I can tell you.

Anyway. I'm not the best company and people know that. Yet here is a tall, athletic blonde asking if she can share my desk and oxygen when there is still three quarters of the room to be filled and others are motioning to her, eager to reel in some enviable math-long muttered conversation.

I shrug, and she grins happily as if I'd just given her a dollar or something and sits down enthusiastically in the other chair. Don't ask me how someone can sit down _enthusiastically_- she manages it.

'I'm Brittany', she says.

Here is what goes through my head: this is a dare from the other cheerios to prank the freak, meaning I'm about to get spat on. Warmly, as well. Which sometimes hurts more. I grunt, which is polite for 'fuck off'. She is clearly not peturbed by this. She's so _bubbly _and _blonde_- to the point of stereotype.

'We've never actually spoken… I moved here a month ago. We only share this lesson'.

I look back at her, thinking (and I may be wrong) that she had not only noticed me in this lesson, but noticed my absence in others. Ok.

I hadn't noticed her at all. This was an example of me adhering to my two rules to surviving in High School: 1. Shut Up. 2. Don't care about other people.

Still.

'Hi', I say and she beams. Good god.

This girl Brittany, when I dig through the mulch in my head which is a back-catalogue of unavoidable High School gossip, is actually pretty popular, in spite of being the new girl in a small-town high school. Sexy. Athletic. Blonde. It's the beautiful equation. She's a cheerleader as well, with the red and white WHMS uniform and the slutty skirts you weren't allowed to call slutty. I could picture her in a house in the suburbs with a post-prom queen mother and a father who was a doctor, or a lawyer.

She's still talking.

'I like your hair'.

I shrug and grit my teeth, because if there is anything as annoying as a popular kid, it's a popular kid paying you a _compliment_. It's right up there with a boy asking whether you are on your period. The thing is though, she says it with such… sincerity that I believe she means it, and I don't know what to do with that.

So I don't say anything.

This doesn't put her off either.

'Are you good at math?'

I consider for a moment, then slowly shake my head.

'Good! Me neither. I find numbers… confusing'. It's weird, this puzzled look crosses her face as if she has to physically express what she is saying, rather than just letting it stand. I suddenly find myself wanting to smile.

The bell goes, and I don't know whether to be relieved or not.

Throughout the lesson, I find myself glancing at her from the corner of my eye, and _no, _not like _that_. Just… because. Because people stay away from me. They just do. But it seemed like this girl Brittany hadn't gotten the memo.

When the lesson is over, I hang behind, forcing her to leave before I do. Luckily a cheerio posse come pick her up and they waltz off to next period. Jeez- god forbid they spend five minutes without talking to each other.

For lunch, I adher to rules 1 and 2 and sit with the smallest group of people I can find, which is a foursome in the far corner of the lunch hall talking about computers. I usually end up with these guys. They're boys and huge computer nerds, but I never get a once-over as I sit down which leads me to believe that computers is just about all they care about. Good.

Looking around the room, my eyes are drawn to a particular person.

I think, _blonde_. Then I think- _shit_.

I make eye contact for a second and she smiles. She really has awesome blue eyes. Then she looks as if she is about to come over and talk and that is just unprecedented. If this is a prank, it's taking a heck of long time to unfold. I look down quickly. I consider skipping lunch. Mack might still be under the bleachers. Then I think: what the hell? If I'm about to get bitch-slapped by a group of cheerios- (a gaggle of cheerios? a bitchiness of cheerios?) then I really don't care. I try not to care.

The blonde Brittany comes over. When she puts the tray down on the edge of the table the computer geeks look up in square-eyed shock. Clearly having a cheerleader within a foot of their table is not something that happens every lunchtime.

'Hi', she says breezily.

'Hello'.

'Can I please sit with you?'

'Yeah sure'.

She takes the seat opposite me, smiling sunnily at the boys, who look somewhat dazed. They are now looking at me with the same eyes as Brittany, and I realise I am now being appraised as a girl. And all it needed was a little context. Jeez.

I cough and glare at them until they withdraw into their own conversations.

Then I say,' what is it?'

She blinks, and looks up at me from her tray.

'What's what?'

I shrug, looking round to where two tables of cheerios are staring at me with wonder and- what? Annoyance? I'm starting to feel my heartbeat pick up with anxiety and this is not a good thing.

'Why are you-' but then I realize that's too rude so I say,' did you need math help?'

'Yes I do'. She looks confused though,' how did you know?'

I pause, as I try to make that brief, confusing exchange into something that makes sense in my head. She pauses too, then keeps talking, smiling and leaning in conspiritorally,' are you a psychic?'

'Erm… no'.

'That's what a psychic would say though'.

'I just… I assumed that's what you wanted to come talk about. I can't think of anything else you'd want to say to me'. I hate that I can actually hear bitterness in my own voice because, rule 2- I do _not _care that much. Honestly I don't.

'I didn't come to talk about math', says Brittany,' but you can if you like. Are you vegetarian?'

'Erm- what?'

Her eyes glance down to my plate, stocked with everything but meat and I realise,' oh, no. Well- I guess. I just don't eat meat if I can avoid it'.

'Why?'

'I want to be responsible for the least amount of deaths possible'.

She nods, slowly, and I abruptly wish I hadn't said it. It just came out, like things do. Beneath the table, I clench my fist so hard I feel the nails make little white crescent marks in my palm. Why I file them down so much I guess. I think of something to say to cover it up- anything.

'Aren't the cheerios going to miss you?' I say, nodding my head to the two tables that were glaring at me earlier. Now they have fallen back into their own conversations, thankfully.

'No', she says simply,' they don't really talk very seriously to me. I think it's because they think I'm stupid'.

'You're not stupid'. Automatic response, right? Polite. But the funny thing is I actually believe it. And I want her to believe it. Because saying someone is stupid just because they are happy is incredibly mean, because it is so tied to truth, and to jealousy I guess. Who wants to be clever? Or grown up? Being clever and grown up equates to being aware and being aware means being sad.

'Thanks Santana', she says and smiles.

When the bell goes for the end of lunch I realise I had lost track of time. And that never happens, not at school, not when I'm awake. So I'm both slightly confused and slightly annoyed as the students around us turn into a surge for the dining hall's exit. I want to keep talking to her. I don't want this part of the day to be over.

She wishes me a happy class as she skips off to cheerios practice. I don't tell her that that would be an impossibility. I don't ask her why she gives a damn. I just return the gesture, then go to class, blinking slightly too fast to be normal.

/

After school, I find myself walking home with the Mack. She is- get this- being expelled, unless she gets her act together. So that's, apparently, why she has suddenly started attending class. We talk about general crap; guys, school, the other tiny fragments of our personality we are willing to reveal, then I ask for a stick of gum from the packet she is unwrapping and she figures that this is her cue to ask ridiculously personal questions.

'Are you a lesbian?'

'The fuck', I say, my heart missing a step even though my feet don't,' why?'

I put my hands into my pockets so I can clench them without her seeing. Shit shit shit shit shit.

'Because it would be totally cool with me if you were'.

'Oh thank god', I say sarcastically,' because that's the thought that has really been keeping me up at night- that _you _might not be ok with it'.

'Are you saying that you _are _a lesbian?'

'No, I'm not'.

'Not saying that or not a lesbian?'

'Those are one and the same, aren't they?'

'Just answer or not- stop avoiding the question'.

'No'.

I dodge across the road infront of traffic so she can't follow me, glad that this is where our routes divulge. She doesn't call after me as I go, which is just as well, probably.

I beast it home, let myself into the empty house and make cereal. It is too early for sleep but I don't want to do my homework so I find myself at the computer.

As it loads I eat cereal and think about The Mack. What had I done that made her suspect? Do I smell like a fucking golf course? I look for a second at my reflection in the mirror above the embarrasing school photos blu-tacked to the wall. I look the same as I always have; dark hair and eyes and skin, kind of angry looking all the time. I don't mind. Rage suits me.

The computer blinks into life and I click idly on the interent browser. As it ticks over, waiting to load I look at the icons on the desktop with absolutely nothing running through my head. My Documents. My Computer. Santana's Diary.

I sigh at that. That was a vague attempt by my mom to get me to _talk about feelings_. I never got past one entry. Just sat there, staring at the blank page until Dean asked if he could watch his DVDs on the computer and I said yes.

The internet finally loads.

My homepage is facebook, because it is all I use. I have a friend request from… Brittany S Pierce. I stare at the icon of her profile for a second. In the picture she is grinning widely, another head half in shot but mostly cut out. At least it's not a baby picture as a profile. That pisses the hell out of me. Now, usually I ignore friend requests from someone who I don't know. It seems to me that friendship means a hell of a lot more than that. You can't just click a link and bam- soulmate! But I figure, I actually enjoyed talking to her today, and if I had a choice I'd do it again. So I accept, and literally two seconds later, a chat window pops up.

Brittany S Pierce: Hello Santana Lopez.

I stare at her name for a second and consider just logging off. I'm not good with… conversation. But- fuck it.

Santana Lopez: hi

Brittany S Pierce: I didn't know your other name was Lopez that's so cool :)

Santana Lopez: why

Brittany S Pierce: It's nice to say. Santana Lopez.

Brittany S Pierce: Santana Lopez.

Brittany S Pierce: Santana Lopez.

Brittany S Pierce: If I were you I would say my name all the time.

Santana Lopez: thanks I think

Brittany S Pierce: Definetly a compliment.

Santana Lopez: sorry. thanks then :)

Brittany S Pierce: :)

The thing is, my rules of surviving High School extend to all textual communication, so I'm strongly tempted right now to just kill the window and go find something to do until bedtime. But I don't, because she is already typing, and I feel compelled to see what she has to say. Thinking about it, she is probably the most interesting person I have so far encountered at McKinley High. For that alone, she has my attention.

Brittany S Pierce: I have a surprise for you tomorrow :D

Santana Lopez: what

Brittany S Pierce: I can't tell you now silly! It's a surprise :)

Brittany S Pierce: meet at my locker before class?

Brittany S Pierce: it's opposite the cheerios locker room

Brittany S Pierce: pretty please?

Santana Lopez:

Santana Lopez:

Santana Lopez: ok.


	3. Bird

CHAPTER THREE

Once upon a time, almost a year before I met a girl called Brittany S Pierce I went into the bathroom and broke the mirror above the sink. I did it with the heel of my left hand, so it didn't shatter, just _splintered _along invisible fracture lines. Affew drops of my blood fell elegantly into the basin. My pyschiatrist told me later that I broke the mirror because of the anger I had, but to be perfectly honest I don't believe that. I broke the mirror so I wouldn't have to look at my own face. I didn't care about those seven years bad luck. How could I? I went in there to swallow pills.

Imagine that.

I didn't last long. I stood there a second, holding them in my mouth before swallowing, almost unsure. It was pathetic, really. I looked down. I was about to swallow. But then something quite significant happened. I saw something and I spat them out. Want honesty? I saw a picture. It shouldn't have even been in the bathroom, my mom had been dusting the living room and needed somewhere to put them and was being lazy. It also shouldn't have been on the top of the pile, not really. It had a heavy frame, very breakable. It should have been wrapped in a sheet somewhere, shatter proof.

Andbutso it was a picture of my abuelita, propped up in bed in hospital. Dean took that picture, but he was little and he didn't understand what was happening. I remembered that day. I was there.

'Santana', she had said,' kiddo, I know you want to jump up on the bed with me, but my body is made out of cancer'.

Funny how a half-remembered voice can shock you to your very core. I spat into the sink like so many mornings.

Fast forward two months and my abuelita would be dead. Fast forward another half year and here I am. Standing next to a broken mirror, unable to remember why the flat palm of my left hand is slowly bubbling with blood. Go further, go back to present day.

I'll be waiting.

/

So yeah.

Friday morning I get up in time for a lift from my mom, who seems pretty happy about this. She _loves _my apparent progress, especially when it's self-motivated. I have a whole stack of leaflets at home about self-motivation, care of Miss Pillsbury. Mom must be dead pleased I'm finally implementing them. We both ignore the fact that I woke up only just in time, and I'm eating cereal in the car, expertly navigating the g forces to keep my lap free of milk. We are also both ignoring Dean, who is sulking in the backseat because I stole the front. I don't blame him. I pity him, actually. It can't be easy having me as a sister, or as any relation really.

Anyway.

So I am skulking around the cheerios locker room a good half an hour before the bell goes feeling a bit dumb and a bit awkward, fidgetting with a scab on my left wrist. And I hear a voice that says,' hello!'

I spin round and she's there, in her cheerios uniform, actually _physically skipping _towards me from the other end of the corridor.

'Hi-' I start, and then she's hugging me before I can say anything else, and the hug doesn't knock the breath out of me, just all the thoughts out of my head.

Ok, then.

'Sorry', she says,' I'm just excited to see you. I was talking to Quinn and she said you wouldn't come'.

'Who's-? Do you mean Quinn captain of the cheerios Quinn?'

'Yep. She said you wouldn't come. But you did!'

'Sorry- what?'

'Come on. My locker's over here. I'll show you the surprise'.

I notice a box, under her arm. A shoebox with affew holes punched through the top with a pair of scissors.

Feeling like I may have been left behind a little in this breathy exchange, I follow her to her locker, then proceed to wait while she stands infront of it, counting numbers on her fingers, the box balanced in the crook of her elbow.

'Are you alright?' I ask.

'Yeah', her forehead is furrowed in concentration,' just remembering my combination'.

'Here-' I take the box off of her, giving her free use of her hands.

She smiles,' thanks Santana'.

She mutters a rhyme under her breath, then keys in the numbers slowly and with great care. The locker door opens.

'Quinn told me that so I can remember. Otherwise I can't get at my stuff and that's not good'.

'Are you friends with Quinn?' I ask, because, not to judge or anything but Quinn Fabray is sort of a bitch. She's head cheerleader, it's practically in the job description. I couldn't imagine her deigning to speak with someone as quirky as Brittany, let alone striking up a friendship. Even if she is a fellow cheerleader.

'Hmm', she replies noncommittally, and then she ever-so gently takes the shoebox off me, smiling widely, excitedly,' take the lid off'.

'Your surprise is shoes?'

She shakes her head, grinning from ear to ear,' go on, take the lid off!'

I go for the lid, and she retreats, suddenly looking worried,' no. Slower. You've got to be gentle or you'll scare him'.

Ok. That's a little concerning.

I gently ease the lid off, a little gingerly as well. Peering inside. At first, it just looks like a box filled with torn up tissue paper, all thickly twisted together. And then there is a rustle inside, and a tiny head emerges, cheeping feebly.

'Oh my-' I glance up at her in disbelief, to find her smiling face closely watching my reaction, looking proud. I can't help but smile too, because it is honestly the most amazing thing I have ever seen. The baby bird is grey and beaked and ugly and gorgeous and making little mewling noises inside the box,' that's amazing! That's _so cool_'.

'I found him on the pavement outside my house. The google says he probably fell out of his nest and I can't put him back there so I'm going to look after him until he is old enough to fly'.

'How?'

'Well I need to keep him at the same temperature and feed him honey and water and not milk and not with a big spoon because otherwise it could go in his lungs and he could die. Also, I have to take him home at night because he needs feeding every 2 hours at night time and in the day every half an hour'.

'Every half an hour?'

'That's why I thought you could help, you know, cause I can't do that by myself'.

I look at her, over the bird.

'I can't look after a bird', I say, suddenly slightly panicked,' I can't even keep my fish alive long enough to form a secure emotional attachment, this is _way _out of my league'.

'It'll be fine', she says,' you just give him honey water. The bottle's in my locker. I figured we could have a rota, that way he could get to know both of us'.

I gently reach in with my pinky finger and gingerly touch the beak. I stroke the bird's head with the gentlest edge of my pinky nail. It kind of shudders under my touch and I withdraw and we watch it for a second. It cheeps.

'That's amazing Brittany', I say.

'I can take toilet breaks to care of him during lessons', she says,' so you don't have to worry about that. I was just hoping you could look after him at lunch… and after school if I have cheerios practise or glee. Please say you will'.

'Yeah- sure'.

She grins and bobs up and down on the balls of her feet,' yay!'

'But…' I withdraw my hand from the box,' why me? Why can't any of your friends help?'

'I thought you would want to more', she says simply.

And so I find myself spending the next twenty minutes before class gently spooning warm honey into the beak of a tiny baby bird. When Brittany takes the spoon to have a go I look up at her face and the corner of her tongue is jutting out of the side of her mouth in concentration. I can't help but think that she looks more adorable then the baby bird. It fills my brain with all sorts of squeeness: such a ridiculously happy thought.

Adorable. Not a word I use regularly.

When the bell rings she gently covers the bird over in paper and softly slides the shoebox into her locker. She looks at her watch and nods to herself,' I've got math next they won't mind me slipping out. Will I see you at lunch?' she asks.

'Um… yeah, I guess'.

She smiles at me,' thanks Santana'.

Then she bounds off to some cheerios thing, before I can ask her 'what for?'

/

Puckerman catches up to me in the corridors later on in the day. I say catch up in the literal sense: he's been chasing me for some time through the sea of students.

'Lopez', he says.

'Puckerman', I say. I don't know why.

He doesn't know why, either. I clearly take him surprise, probably because I have been avoiding and ignoring him for the past month.

Before he can respond, I move away.

/

At lunch, I eat with Brittany by her locker. We switch between feeding our own faces and feeding the bird's. Luckily this is a corner of the school people are unlikely to wander past for no reason, meaning for the most it's just me and her and the sunlight streaming through the bay windows and this small, feathery head sticking out of Brittany's fist.

'I wonder whether he's scared of us', I say.

Brittany shakes her head,' he couldn't be scared of _us_.' She said,' we're his mommies'.

I snort,' you're like a child'.

'Oh', she says, and I suddenly panic.

'I meant- it's good. I like that. You're really happy'.

She beams at me as I collect my thoughts,' okay', she says.

'Okay', I agree.

And just like that, Brittany becomes a friend and an ally.

Things rarely happen that swiftly and neatly in my life, but falling into a friendship with Brittany is simple and lovely and easy to do. And I become happy- or at least, as close as I am ever going to get to it. Because let's face it, I'm screwed up, but it is very hard to hate life when at the end of each class a pinkie finger is always there to find yours and take the long way round to their lessons, just so they can talk to you. Brittany seems to have endless enthusiasm for the world, and oddly enough, it doesn't annoy me or tire me, even though I am the complete opposite. She can talk endlessly about any subject and it wouldn't bother me. And her laugh. When she laughs, it's this giggle, and I usually hate it when girls pull that crap, but with Brittany it's not like it's fake. It's like she is being tickled by life. It's reality. A tiny glimpse of how she sees the world. I think it must be nice to be inside her brain.

About a week after she first shares her secret with me the teachers have started the exam-stress process, and Baby bird has now become a little more mobile. And she has now named it Kurt,' like this boy in glee. He looks like him'. 'Kurt' can now flop around and make half-hearted attempts to escape the box, as opposed to just lying there I guess means he is getting better. Brittany says that soon we'll have to teach him how to fly. She says in reality baby birds learn by copying their mothers, but we will think of something.

'Do the teachers not suspect? Have they not noticed how many times a day you go to the bathroom?'

Brittany nods, sagely,' I had double spanish yesterday. Now Mr Schuester thinks I have a urinary tract infection'.

That makes me laugh, out loud at the lunch table, which let me tell you has never happened before. Brittany looks at me with these shiny happy eyes like she knows what a big thing the laugh is, and I shrug and take a swig out of my bottle of water.

Pretty much everyone at school has an after-school activity. Mine is walking home.

Not today though, due to the fact that when I lower the water bottle, Brittany leans forward conspiritorially and announces brightly:

'You should come to the Gay-Straight-Alliance meeting after school today'.

I'm suddenly grateful that she waited for me to finish drinking, as I probably would have choked. To put it lightly this statement surprises me on more than one level. For starters, I didn't even know that McKinley _had _a Gay-Straight-Alliance. From the evidence I'd seen the Straight side didn't seem to care about the lack of allegiance but whatever.

'Why?' I say, carefully, wondering how she knew, could she know, she couldn't know, seriously. But then, why ask?

'Because I go along and its fun'.

OK. Ok. Have to admit to a slight leap of all my internal organs there, in her direction. G or S, G or S? I realize with a crushing finality that shes probably the capital S Straight half of the initialism, and is only asking me about it because she has heard the drunk girl kissing story and wants to bolster the ranks of the club.

'I don't think that's a good idea', I say, hating the hurt I can hear in my voice. For fuck's sake.

'It's really good, honestly. _Please_'. Brittany looks at me with these adorable wide eyes.

I stare at her. What else am I doing? I think. Shit.

'Fine', I mumble.

'Yay!'

She claps her hands together in delight, making me smile in spite of myself. Then, she grabs a pen out of my bag and grabs my hand, scribbling a room number onto my skin, mercifully the opposite side to my scars. I still snatch my hand away like she'd spat on it.

She looks hurt.

'Sorry', she says, looking a little unsure.

'No- it's just… I fell on that arm and it's still sore'.

'Awwww- can I see?'

'No!'

Now she's staring at me like I'm insane, and the fucked up thing is this _really _bothers me- I _want _her to think well of me. I want her to like me and want to know me. But that can't happen- not if I show her the spidery pink lines dug into my arm. I serrupticiously twitch the long sleeves of my jumper up to cover my wrists.

'I'll see you there', she says.

'Okay', I say.

She smiles,' okay'.

Okay.


End file.
